


Seen and Unseen

by Mackaley



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Comfort, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Human Furniture, M/M, No Smut, Objectification, Service
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:15:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27507460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mackaley/pseuds/Mackaley
Summary: So this is all he has to do. Don’t think, don’t worry. Just stay quiet, stay still. A single purpose, a single function. It is utterly liberating.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 120





	Seen and Unseen

**Author's Note:**

> This was my piece for the Crowley edition of the Bottoms Up zine! This kink is one of my favorites and so underrepresented that I was really happy I got an excuse to write it. 
> 
> I also collabed with the amazing CynSyn! Her piece can be found [here](https://twitter.com/amadness2method/status/1326526418910646282?s=21) (NSFW), and make sure to check out her other amazing art and fic on [her AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CynSyn/pseuds/CynSyn)!

He’d lost count of the clock’s ticks somewhere around minute eighty-three, counting them between the beats of his heart until they had synced up, until he’d become just another part of the environment around him. The ticks echoed in the silence of the bookshop, accompanying the steady whispers of their breathing and the occasional rustle of Aziraphale turning a page.

He’s been kneeling to Aziraphale’s side, his spine as upright as he can manage and his arms held ramrod straight in front of him, palms flat and facing skyward. Several books are stacked on his forearms - Aziraphale couldn’t decide quite what he was in the mood to read - and a delicate porcelain teacup and saucer, patterned with apple blossoms, rests in his hands. 

His cock is soft and resting gently against his thigh. That isn’t the point of this exercise - at least, not always. He just gets stuck in his racing thoughts sometimes, in his anxieties, and needs someone, needs _Aziraphale_ , to take absolute control. Reduce him to nothing more than a _thing_. 

Aziraphale had been the one to make the suggestion the first time they’d done it. After sharing their lives for over six thousand years, Crowley really shouldn’t have been surprised that the angel could tell that his pacing around the bookshop was more frantically manic than listlessly bored. Aziraphale had spoken his name with a calm command, and Crowley had stopped in his tracks. 

“You need something to do,” Aziraphale had said. 

“Use me,” Crowley replied.

He’d stripped down, gotten on his hands and knees, and the angel propped his feet up on his back to settle in for a night of reading. His mind had cleared and calm washed over him, because pieces of furniture have no worries. They are just used, exactly as they’re designed. 

So this is all he has to do. Don’t think, don’t worry. Just stay quiet, stay still. A single purpose, a single function. It is utterly liberating.

Aziraphale reaches over absently for his teacup and Crowley keeps his fingers rigid, making sure the saucer is perfectly level as Aziraphale grasps the handle of the cup and lifts it to his mouth out of view. Crowley longs to look at Aziraphale taking his sip, to see the way his pink lips part slightly and the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows the tea down, but he does not look. He does not move because Aziraphale asked him to be still, because _he_ had asked Aziraphale to ask him to be still. 

Aziraphale sets the cup down on the saucer and Crowley savors the returned warmth to the palm of his hand. Aziraphale’s fingers move to rest in his hair, a question. Crowley assesses the tension in his shoulders, the ache in his forearms. His limbs haven’t started shaking yet and he knows he can keep going. He pushes his head gently into his hand, an assurance, and Aziraphale strokes him one last time before returning to his reading.

There is a dichotomy within him. He is singularly focused on his corporation, on every cell, every twitch of muscle. He feels the burn in his limbs as he keeps himself rigid, ensuring a flat surface for his angel’s possessions. But even as he pays careful attention, he still doesn’t feel present within himself. He feels as if he is disconnected from the sharp ache that exists as he holds himself still, as if he is outside of his body. Because he is not a body: he is a thing. His angel’s favorite, most treasured thing, and Aziraphale takes such good care of the things that he loves. 

He continues to sit, grateful for this reprieve from his mind, grateful to be _useful_ in such a literal way. How lucky he is to serve Aziraphale like this, how lucky to be so cared for. His heart continues to beat with the ticking of the clock, his breath steady, sure. He stays there for a while longer until he feels a tremor in his arm, and he knows it’s time to stop.

“Aziraphale,” he whispers, his voice creaky from disuse. The angel sets down his book immediately and slowly, carefully removes the three other books resting on his freckled forearms, the teacup and saucer warming his hands. He only catches brief glimpses of Aziraphale’s face as he cleans up until Aziraphale kneels in front of him and looks him directly in the eyes as he is finally _seen_. 

A small, proud smile plays at Aziraphale’s lips and emotion warms the timbre of his voice as he taps Crowley’s outstretched limbs and says softly, “You can lower your arms now.” Crowley’s arms drop in a slump and his muscles are so grateful for the reprieve that he lets out a small, dry sob. “You did so well, Crowley,” Aziraphale continues as he rubs up and down Crowley’s tired limbs. “Thank you for serving me for so long. Come here?” 

Aziraphale opens his arms as he unfolds his legs to sit down, and Crowley shuffles forward, sits in his soft lap, and tries to wrap his arms around the angel, but his muscles refuse to cooperate. The noise of frustration dies in his throat as Aziraphale scoops his arms against his chest and holds him close. Crowley closes his eyes and focuses on the thick fingers running through his hair and scratching at his scalp, on the burn in his arms and his knees, on the soft, murmured adorations about how he is valued, _cherished_. 

He enjoys being a thing, but it’s here in his angel’s arms that he knows he’s more than that. That he is cared for and loved beyond his utility, beyond his ability to perform. That he will be loved no matter what, and the comfort of that is worth everything. He takes a deep, contented breath, and lets himself drift into sleep.


End file.
